


devils feed on the seeds that are sown

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: the weight of us (stand alone s4 fic) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassin Mary Morstan, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Gen, POV Mary Morstan, The Six Thatchers Spoilers, if you're a fan of nice!Mary you won't like this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9187192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: Rosamund pulls out a throw away mobile and begins to type, "You've throughly distracted him, I assume? He does have a thing for redheads though you'll have to come on strong or he'll go running back to his boyfriend."The phone pings. "Dinner, 8:45pm. Tuesday."Rosamund smirks. It took him less than a week after the funeral to move on, not surprising. She's almost proud of his effort; it does work out in her favor after all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rosamund Mary = Mary Morstan, Mary Watson in this fic

There's a hole in your soul like an animal with no conscience.  
[A Pain That I'm Used To](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_c341leZHJw)

 

 

It plays out like a tragedy. 

A sacrificial blood soaked shirt, precisely administered drugs combined with the shroud of a shocked husband, the rising cresendo of heartwrenching grief like a violin out of tune, a mothers last breath, the lover shunned. 

Three days from now, a brand new stone will read: 

 

 **ROSAMUND MARY WATSON** (or perhaps even: **MARY ELIZABETH _(Morstan)_ WATSON** )

**Beloved wife and mother, gone too soon.**

**1974-2015**

 

The funeral will be a small affair. John (playing the pained grieving husband), Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade and a handful of neighbors will attend. Sherlock Holmes, however, will be notably absent. John will take this to heart and add it to an ever growing list of reasons as to why he should not be present in Rosie's life.

Mrs. Hudson will hug him tightly and sniffle into her wrinkled Kleenex, Molly will cry quietly as she rocks the baby, Greg will bow his head out of respect for the dead, John will stand soldier straight though the tired lines on his face will give him away. He'll clench his jaw and pretend to hold back tears; they'll others will buy the lie despite knowing the turmoil of their marriage within the past year. 

The neighbors will murmur their condolences and mourn the loss of a child to its mother. They'll come by mid week with diapers, hot dishes and offers to babysit. John will stare at his feet, grimace and thank them politely -- he will not decline. 

Predictable, the lot of them. 

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock will charter a plane to Norway. He'll be none the wiser and, like everyone else with veils upon their eyes, assume her death was a genuine albeit unexpected sacrifice. Oh but it's glorious. They're nothing more than puppets on a string and the puppet master has only just begun. 

 

Rosamund pulls out a throw away mobile and begins to type, "You've throughly distracted him, I assume? He does have a thing for redheads though you'll have to come on strong or he'll go running back to his boyfriend."

The phone pings. "Dinner, 8:45pm. Tuesday."

Rosamund smirks. It took him less than a week after the funeral to move on, not surprising. She's almost proud of his effort; it does work out in her favor after all. 

"Elizabeth," she sends. 

It's a warning laced with cyanide: should you fail, you will not live long enough to repair the damage. The last agent who'd dropped the ball had disappeared without a trace or so the world thinks. The dead cannot confess. 

"Understood," the woman replies. 

Rosamund smirks and pockets her mobile. The sun disappears behind gray clouds. 

"What a beautiful day," she murmurs. 


End file.
